How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  “He died last—”

  “Not him,” her father interrupted. “The younger one. His son. The one you were meant to marry. He was here.” He gave her a defiant look, daring her to contradict him.

  Fenella nodded. Her father’s memory was erratic. He forgot so much, but then he remembered things one wished he would forget. Could he have sensed that her thoughts were full of Roger?

  “I cannot believe you’re making the same mistake twice,” he went on in a fretful tone. “If you would just put forward a little effort, you could have him. He’s out there for the plucking. Why not grasp your chance? You’d outrank your sisters as a marchioness. You’d like that.”

  Fenella was surprised. She didn’t think he’d noticed the friction with her older sisters. She was even more surprised to find that the idea had an appeal. She almost told him that she thought she would marry Roger. But she couldn’t quite give him the satisfaction after his criticisms about her sex.

  “You’re less stupid than I used to think,” her father went on, destroying her impulse to confide in him. “Your grandmother did that much for you. And you’re not bad looking.” He surveyed her as if she was a brood mare. “Not as pretty as Greta or as lively as Nora, but well enough.”

  He’d always had an instinct for the low blow. Lively as Nora who shrieked at her pony? “I don’t wish to talk about this, Papa.”

  “Why not? There’s no impediment now. Everyone’s forgotten that stupid story Chatton spread about. Saying you killed his wife by encouraging her to go out riding in a storm.” He snorted.

  She’d thought he hadn’t heard that, shut up in his sickroom as he was.

  Her father gazed at her. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “Are you seriously asking me that question, Papa?”

  “You’re right. Don’t tell me.”

  “Of course I did not!” Fenella exclaimed. “I tried to persuade her not to go.”

  “Well, that was foolish.”

  How could this be her father, Fenella thought. Was he really advocating murder? This must be his illness speaking.

  “It was too much to send her out into the storm,” he continued. “I see that. But why argue with her? It wasn’t your idea. Let the chit soak herself.”

  “Because it was the right thing to do!”

  He made a derisive sound. “She was no great loss. Pretty, I’ll give you that. Deuced pretty. But cold. Hoity-toity marchioness. She wasn’t liked, you know.”

  “Please don’t say such things, Papa.” His attitude and tone saddened her. She’d thought him a better man than this.

  “You always were a wet goose.” He spoke with a kind of contemptuous fondness that grated on Fenella more than anger.

  “Promise me you won’t talk about this with anyone else,” she said. “Not Simpson. Not anyone.”

  “I have no one to talk to,” he complained.

  She started to press him. But her father’s promises held no weight these days. He forgot.

  “You’re doing this just to spite me, aren’t you?” He picked at the bedclothes.

  “Doing what?” Trying to keep him from ruining his reputation?

  “You refuse to admit that I was right about Chatton. You’ll throw away your future rather than do so. You’re that stubborn!”

  His mind drifted irresistibly back to his grievances. Nothing else stuck any more. Fenella looked at the prominent bones of his hands, the overly thin body under the bedclothes. Once, she’d wanted to prove her father wrong about many things. Suddenly, that seemed less important. She wondered if there was any chance of a better understanding between them before he was gone forever.

  Fenella was diverted by the sound of horses through the open window. She went to look out. A carriage had arrived in front of the house. A footman had sprung down and was helping an older lady out. As she stepped onto the gravel, hoofbeats heralded a rider, and Roger came riding down the drive toward the front door. The lady turned. The footman handed another older female from the carriage.

  Roger pulled up at the sight of them. He paused, spoke to the ladies, then turned his mount away and trotted off.

  Fenella watched him go with a keen sense of disappointment. She needed to see him, for a number of reasons. Roger’s expression, insofar as she could see it from this distance, had been odd. “I must go, Papa,” she said. “We have visitors.”

  “To see me?”

  Perhaps they had come to cheer her father, Fenella thought as another older lady emerged from the coach. She couldn’t think of another reason for this group to arrive together. “I’ll bring them up to you after a bit.” She went to receive them.

  Fenella found four women of her mother’s generation in the drawing room, standing in a group that had the distinct feeling of a delegation. They included the leading female figures of her neighborhood. Colonel Patterson’s extremely correct wife was there, and Lady Prouse, the spouse of the local baronet. Mrs. McIlwaine, whose husband was the largest landowner in the area after Roger, stood next to Mrs. Byrne. These latter two were the mothers of Roger’s old friends. Fenella wondered that the vicar’s wife was not among them. She usually formed part of their distaff cabal.

  The callers looked serious when she greeted them and asked them to sit down. Fenella had ordered refreshment to be brought on her way downstairs.

  “We felt it best to come and speak to you,” said Mrs. Patterson.

  “To me?” So they hadn’t come to see her father.

  “Because of something that has begun to happen in the neighborhood,” said Mrs. Byrne.

  Fenella tried to imagine what could it be. If the estate’s cattle had broken loose and ravaged a farmer’s fields, he wouldn’t send these grand ladies to protest. If they wanted her help in some charitable endeavor, they’d send a note. And expect her to cough up a donation. Which she would. There was no need for a formal request. These ladies ran local society without her help.

  “Some very strange letters have been arriving,” said Lady Prouse. “Disturbing. Each of us has received one.”

  “Delivered by hand,” said Mrs. Byrne. “Not by the mail.”

  “Anonymous letters,” said Mrs. Patterson. “Which are a despicable thing.”

  Fenella stared at the four venerable faces confronting her. A tremor went through her suddenly. “What kind of letters?”

  “Outrageous ones,” replied Mrs. Patterson.

  “Dreadful,” declared Mrs. McIlwaine.

  “Reviving that ridiculous story about the young marchioness’s death,” said Lady Prouse.

  “Story?” But Fenella knew the answer.

  “These letters claim that you egged her on to ride out in the storm,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.

  “And that you were well aware that she had weak lungs,” added Mrs. Byrne. “And was particularly susceptible to chills. Had been all her life.”

  Was there a hint of relish in her voice, Fenella wondered. No, she was imagining it.

  “Of course none of us ever believed you were at fault,” said Colonel Patterson’s stately wife. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but the young marchioness was a headstrong girl.”

  “Very modern manners,” said the baronet’s spouse. “No one imagined you could suggest anything to that young woman.”

  Yet all four ladies were looking at her, waiting for something. “Of course they’re not true,” said Fenella, humiliated by the need to deny. “I begged Arabella not to ride out.”

  “You went with her,” said Lady Prouse.

  “When I saw that she wouldn’t be convinced, I did. To make sure she got home safely.” Arabella had been in such a reckless mood that day. Fenella had worried about a fall from her horse.

  Mrs. Byrne looked reluctant, but it didn’t keep her from asking, “Did you know that she had a history of lung complaints?”

  “I
did not. She said something about it after she became ill.” Did they not believe her?

  “Miss Fairclough is not required to defend herself,” said Mrs. Patterson. “We didn’t come here for that. We all know her and admire her character.” She met Fenella’s eyes with a grave glance. “We thought you should know, however.”

  Fenella supposed she appreciated the information. This was better than whispers behind her back.

  “And decide what to do,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.

  “It’s difficult to counter anonymous accusations,” said Fenella. Indeed it was nearly impossible. There was no one to confront, no forum to declare the truth. Some would assume that the writer knew secrets. “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Of course not,” said Mrs. Byrne.

  “If there were a way to track down the source,” said Mrs. Patterson.

  All four ladies looked at Fenella. “I have no idea who would send such sneaking letters,” she said. Hand delivery suggested they came from nearby. “The idea that a neighbor would do this is simply horrible.” It made her want to cry.

  There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

  “We’ve inquired about how they arrived,” said Mrs. Byrne. “But no one seems to have seen anything.”

  A silence fell. What did they expect her to do? Fenella wondered.

  “It’s just, the timing is rather awkward, as you and Chatton are…renewing your childhood friendship,” said Mrs. McIlwaine.

  The sentence descended on Fenella like a smothering blanket of fog. Of course people had noticed her outings with Roger. They had undoubtedly passed numerous unseen observers on their rides. Clandestine was not really a possibility in a small country neighborhood. Color flooded her cheeks as she wondered if anyone had seen them at the berry patch.

  “We thought we might offer to help, as you have no mother of your own,” said Mrs. Byrne.

  “You’ll tell everyone that the accusations are untrue,” Fenella said.

  Her callers nodded, but they didn’t look satisfied.

  “We could give Chatton a push,” said Lady Prouse. “We’re all well acquainted with Lady Chatton, of course. We could enlist her in the cause. An announced engagement would show this letter writer that his, or her, slanders were futile.”

  “I don’t want—” began Fenella.

  “And a fine match it would be,” said Mrs. McIlwaine, speaking at the same time.

  Fenella looked at her visitors, leaning forward, a cadre eager for action. What made them so ready to arrange younger people’s lives? This was just what had happened to Roger before, when he’d been manipulated into marriage. That couldn’t happen. She’d rather return to Scotland. “I would prefer to manage matters myself,” she said. She needed to speak to Roger.

  Her guests looked doubtful.

  Fenella set herself to convincing them that she was quite able to deal with her own affairs. And after a good deal more conversation, accompanied by tea and Madeira cake, she thought she’d done so. The ladies departed with expressions of goodwill and promises of support. And at last Fenella was free to contemplate her situation in private.

  A clandestine courtship had been a ridiculous idea, she thought as she went upstairs to her room. They weren’t children any more, to be meeting by an oak tree and roaming the countryside. She’d let herself be carried away by Roger’s enthusiasm. And more than that, she admitted.

  In her bedchamber, Fenella looked in the mirror and saw the person her grandmother had called forth gazing back at her. Features firmed by intelligence and resolution. Eyes that saw reality. Which brought an ironic smile to her reflection’s lips.

  The last week had felt like removing a corset pulled far too tight. After so much denying and suppressing, suddenly there was no need to pretend she was indifferent to Roger. All sorts of memories and feelings had come bubbling up.

  She’d been drawn to him all her life, she admitted now. She’d followed his antics as a child, admired his courage and sheer effrontery. She’d longed to be one of his cronies, careening over the countryside, wild and free. And when their fathers had first suggested marriage, right at the beginning, she hadn’t been opposed. Here in the privacy of her room she admitted it to herself. She’d been seventeen! She’d concocted a brief, romantic fantasy of being Roger’s wife and a marchioness, living in Chatton Castle, the neighborhood at her feet.

  That had gone up in smoke at his reaction. “Sodding sheep,” she said to the mirror. Of course she’d rejected him after that. She’d had some spirit, even then. She’d gone away, and then he had, and come home married to someone else. The past had to be buried. She’d had to do what was right. Fenella had applied a thick veneer of correctness, and avoided him.

  And then to top it all off, Roger had blamed her for Arabella’s death, loudly and publicly. Fenella frowned at the mirror. She’d understood some of what he’d felt, but that was no excuse. He’d created a wretched tangle, and no doubt inspired this sneaking letter writer who had popped up at just the wrong moment.

  She turned away from her reflection. What to do now? She didn’t think anyone had believed that she’d encouraged Arabella to ride out into a storm. But if she was sneaking out to meet Roger, some might wonder what they had to hide. Which was nothing! She’d done nothing wrong. She’d tried to be Arabella’s friend, difficult as that had been. And in return she’d received a load of unpleasantness.

  She wasn’t suddenly free, Fenella thought as she left her room. That had been an illusion, born of an exhilarating gallop and some delirious kisses, and now destroyed by a few lines of malicious ink.

  Eleven

  As Fenella rode out the next morning, the August day promised to be hot. The house had felt stifling, though part of that might be due to the news she’d received rather than the weather, she thought. She went to the old oak in hopes of seeing Roger alone. She wasn’t prepared to call at the castle just now, but she needed to speak to him.

  She didn’t have to linger long before he arrived. “It’s so pleasant to find you here instead of James and Alistair and Donald waiting to plan some minor deviltry,” he said as he brought his horse up beside hers.

  “Is it?”

  “The last time we four gathered, we decided to set a litter of piglets loose at the church fete.”

  “I remember that.”

  He looked down at her. The tenderness in his eyes rendered her momentarily speechless. The last time they’d been alone, they’d been drowned in kisses.

  “Where shall we ride?” he continued. “It’s going to be a hot day. I wish I could take you swimming.”

  “In the sea?” The currents made that a chancy proposition, even if the shore hadn’t been unacceptably public.

  “No, I know a little pond in a hollow on the side of a hill. It’s hidden by bushes and banks of reeds. Spring fed, wonderfully cool on the hottest day. We boys used to swim there.”

  “And we’d undoubtedly be caught by someone if we ventured there.”

  “I don’t think so. Did you ever hear of the place? Years ago, I mean.”

  Fenella shook her head.

  “So there is one secret we managed to keep.” Roger seemed inordinately pleased by the idea.

  What a joy it would be to throw off her clothes and plunge into cool water and consign all her worries to perdition! But she’d discovered a dreadful thing in the night, alone in the darkness. Troubling half dreams had plagued her. While she was not asleep but drifting, she’d found that the advent of these malicious letters had roused the timid girl she used to be. Something about older ladies coming to warn her—as her mother had so often scolded about standards that she’d never seemed able to meet—had pushed her back into the past. The disappointment of one’s parents was a heavy weight, she thought as she and Roger set off across the field. And the sense of being whispered about throughout the neighborhood wa
s as bad, or worse. The young, fearful Fenella was urging caution, recalling old mockery and hurts. She wanted to hide or run away, far from prying eyes. It was mortifying to find that her weakness was still there. She wanted to take bold steps, to dismiss mean-spirited talk with a sweep of her hand, but she couldn’t quite.

  “We could go and look at it,” Roger said. “I don’t suppose we can actually swim.”

  What was he… Oh, the pond. “John seems to pop up everywhere.”

  “True. And Tom as well.” Roger frowned. “If they find the place and blab about it—” He brightened. “They’ll both be leaving soon. I’ll swear them to secrecy.”

  Fenella had to laugh. “Would you really swim there now?”

  “Of course. It’s a marvelous spot. You’d love it, I promise. Let’s go and see.”

  “Not today.”

  “What’s wrong?” he said. He examined her face. “I can tell something’s wrong.”

  “Can you?” If she told him about the letters, he’d be furious. If she didn’t, he would hear anyway, probably after he made some embarrassing misstep. “Papa is declining. I can’t stay out long.”

  “Is that all?” He held up a hand. “I don’t mean it’s a small thing, but he has been ill for a long time.”

  Of course she had to tell him. For all sorts of reasons, but mainly she didn’t want to hide things from him. That never answered.

  “Fenella?”

  “Something’s happened.”

  “Not good, I take it.”

  “No.” Fenella took a breath and told him the bad news that the neighborhood committee had brought her.

  Roger began to mutter well before she was done. Curses, she thought, though he kept them inaudible. He crushed his mount’s reins in his fist. “Damn the infernal impudence,” he said when she finished. He looked as if he’d very much like to hit something.

  “So you see, this clandestine game you imagined isn’t possible. People will begin to wonder what we have to hide. Indeed, I think we will have to stand back a bit and—”